


in for a copper, in for a crown

by stillmadaboutpetra



Series: appropriate ways to care for your local witcher [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Body Worship, Cock Slut, Cock Worship, Come Swallowing, Enthusiastic Consent, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Slut Jaskier | Dandelion, Topping from the Bottom, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, dumb cute and horny, its dick sucking, kind of, sometimes thats enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24329755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: Geralt makes a joking suggestion about how Jaskier might pay him back. Jaskier only too enthusiastically agrees.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: appropriate ways to care for your local witcher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762969
Comments: 154
Kudos: 1706
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	in for a copper, in for a crown

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(シ)_/¯

Jaskier tries his best, he really does, but life doesn’t give participation grades; right now, Jaskier is participating a whole lot in trying not to trip and die in the dark scary woods. He’d set off after Geralt of Rivia with very little planning or forethought once he realized the Witcher had left the tavern. One moment there, the next, gone. Apparently the time it took to drink his drink was all he’d allotted to sticking around.This is his second time Geralt’s ditched him since Jaskier met up with him a month ago, Posada a clean five months behind them; they’d just finished off a lovely little caper with a nest of gremlins that’d been killing all the chickens in the town and chewed off some farmer’s foot. Jaskier had no plans to write a song for that one.

Jaskier had finally found the perfect muse, a fount of inspiration; he wasn’t going to let Geralt just run away. Or, gallop, perhaps; although he rarely seemed to push Roach past more than a brisk trot. Because Geralt had put a lot of ground between himself and town very quickly. Jaskier took off not soon after, belongings thrown hastily into a bag, his elven lute banging on his back.

He managed a full sprint for a good ten minutes before he keeled over, hands on knees wheezing. Then, he started walking. And walking. And for a change of pace, a bit of jogging. Then more walking. He spiced it up with calling out for Geralt like the Witcher was waiting around the corner for him. Did a little strumming, some humming, whistled a tune or two. Lots of lovely walking.

For like, awhile. Like, a long while. Like, it’s dark out and Jaskier’s left the main road, and has since realized that finding the Witcher has gone from his number one priority to pretty low on the list. Right now, he just wants to be somewhere not in the woods. That’s critical priority. A big campfire and a well-pitched tent would do nicely as well. He has a bed roll, mostly clothes, a lute and some stale bread. He eats the stale bread. It leaves his mouth dry. Ten minutes later, his stomach cramps unhelpfully, bread a handful of pebbles in his belly.

Sometime around dark o’clock, he gives up, cold, thirsty, and a little bit scared. Not terribly, really, just enough to make every noise in the night a hundred times louder, his own breath too harsh for his ears. He’ll...stop. No sense driving himself further into getting lost. The road is somewhere, back there, yonder, in that general direction, thataways. Oh! That’s a lovely log, he’ll just plop down and wait for morning. It’s fine. He won’t die from having to rough it for one night. It’s totally fine. He is a wandering bard; it can’t all be bouncing between royal homes and smelly taverns and warm campfires. Sometimes, you have to sleep in the woods. Lost. Ill-prepared. A little bit scared.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whines into the night, knowing it’s useless, doing it anyway. He tucks his hands into his armpits, hugs himself, considers what the other lads are doing from his graduating class. Probably not fruitlessly chasing a Witcher through the woods.

Something rustles nearby. Jaskier shoots to his feet, pulling his lute in front of him, whether to use as a shield or weapon he hasn’t decided yet.

“Oh hell’s bells, please be a cute little rabbit,” Jaskier mutters. He shrugs off the strap of his lute, gripping its neck. Weapon then. Fuck it; he’ll die a bard’s death if tonight be the night. “Come out then, you cowardly fuck, prey on me no more!”

It better not be gremlins. He’ll kick the little runt bastards to the heavens and run away, forget a bard’s death. Gnawed to pieces does not an epic poem make.

Yellow eyes step out of the thicker darkness of the wood. Geralt’s hair beams white in a slant of moonlight broken through the canopy.

“Oh sweet pillowy tits,” Jaskier sighs, slumping, hand on his racing heart. Just a Witcher. Fwoo! “Ha ha,” he laughs nervously, wagging a weak finger at Geralt. “Had me there, Geralt, you - you sneaky scamp. Had me on bit of a wild goose chase, you did.”

“Bard,” Geralt greets, stalking towards him. He snatches Jaskier up by the shirt, collar wrung snug tight around his throat. He shakes Jaskier, rather gently all things considered, bit like a mother cat tenderly throttling the runt of the litter for having zero self-preservation skills. “Stop. Following. Me.”

“Is it not you who has come to me tonight? Perhaps all this time it is you following me.” Jaskier bats his eyelashes for all the good it’ll do when there’s no flattering light to set off his eyes. He tries to angle his face into a moonbeam, catch a twinkle of starlight. Hell, he’ll take the flash of a lightning bug’s robust bottom if only to add a little much needed sparkle.

Geralt breathes menacingly. But it’s true so there. Geralt releases his collar with a huff, turns, and walks from whence he came. Jaskier follows him without missing a beat.

“I’m so glad I found you! Do stop running off on me, Geralt. I know, you’re a man of few words, adoring your solitude, but a little company doesn’t hurt. I promised you I’d make you famous. I do believe in your mission, Witcher. I’ve seen it first hand -- and it’s a touch, just a touch, embarrassing for me to get lost. Now, if we were in a city, I’d be in my element. Next time we are, please, allow me the honor of leading the way. I’ll have us in a lovely bed, with good company and good wine; that’s my promise to you. A rousing chorus of your name shall greet you at the next great gates we pass!”

Jaskier chatters ceaselessly to the Witcher’s camp. It actually isn’t very far from where he’d given up. Huh. Maybe he had a bit of the hunter in him as well. A yet uncovered talent? To be explored another day.

Geralt shoves him down by the fire, throws a skin of water at him. There’s a leg of something, er...something, roasted and even salted, brilliant! stuck on a pike by the fire. Geralt sits down across the fire from Jaskier, resuming his work pounding herbs into a paste. The campsite is exactly as if he’d gone for a piss and happened upon Jaskier by chance. Jaskier stares at him, struck dumb and silent for the first time since finding the Witcher. Or, rather, being found by him. He eats and drinks sitting in that silence, thinking it over.

Jaskier flicks a bone into the fire when he’s done, watches it char. “You knew I was following you.”

Geralt doesn’t look at him, and for a minute Jaskier thinks he won’t respond with nothing more than the relentless crush and scrape of his wooden pestle. But then he does speak. “Yelling tends to give one away.”

“Why not fetch me sooner?” Could have spared Jaskier a lot of said yelling.

“Because,” Geralt says meaningfully, looking up so he can lock eyes with Jaskier, really impress upon him the weight and feeling behind his words, “I wanted you to go away.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, not hurt, not a bit. He fiddles with another bone, snaps it from the leg of - raccoon? It had been terribly gamey. “Why fetch me at all?”

Geralt sighs, rests his arms across his knees, lets his head hang down off his shoulders. Shakes his head. Resumes pestling. “You sounded so pathetic crying my name.”

Jaskier purses his lips. “I’m going to choose to interpret that as a compliment.”

Geralt actually chuckles, shaking his head. His eyes flick up to regard Jaskier, mouth a crooked illusion of good humor; he’s radiant in the firelight. Even the smudge of dirt on his cheeks compliments his skin. Where was that flattering lighting when Jaskier needed it? Some people have all the luck. “You are unrepentant.”

“Another compliment,” Jaskier jests, resting back now, settled. He waves a hand through the air encouragingly. “Do go on, Geralt. So far I’m pathetically unrepentant. Or is it unrepentantly pathetic? The latter has a little more spice to it.”

Geralt’s grin is a snap of sharp white teeth. He’s enjoying himself. Jaskier wants to leap to his feet and point and say HA! Because Geralt is bettered by some decent company, by trading silly barbs, by having a tiny wedge of fun amongst the doom and gloom of his heroics and heartbreak. Because after all, Geralt let Jaskier trail him. Or, Jaskier knew the far more sad and likely truth was, Geralt probably circled around behind Jaskier and ended up trailing the bard instead. It’s not like Geralt really had anywhere to go, so why not meander behind the idiot barking his name.

Because the truth about Geralt is, he wouldn’t let Jaskier die. Not like that, alone in the night. Geralt was the man who said “beat me instead” to the elves intent on their murder when he didn’t even know Jaskier’s name, only that they were bound together and one of them was designed to withstand pain and the other, not. But who was Jaskier? The man who called out this unfair nature of beating a bound man. Geralt had accepted it simply as the elve’s right of a tactical advantage over their opponent.

“Make your camp, bard,” Geralt advises after a beat. “The next civilized place we pass, I’m dropping you off.” And before Jaskier can protest, because his mouth immediately opened to protest, Geralt pointed rudely and threateningly at him. “I will leave you bound and gagged in a pigsty.”

Jaskier closed his mouth with aplomb, as if it’d been his idea, and sulks by the fire quietly, warming his fingers.

For a little.

Geralt must have developed a sense for the rising babble in Jaskier’s throat because everytime Jaskier even thinks about talking, Geralt will look up from his herbal work, stinging Jaskier into silence with nought but a look.

It works for a little while, but like all suffering, Jaskier callousses to it. Humans are so adaptable that way.

“I just want to say,” Jaskier rushes out, hands up in a gesture for peace. “Thank you, Geralt, for fetching me. I know -- I know you do not see my purpose as I do, but it is exactly your acts of noble kindness that demand I pay you the respects you deserve.” He is warm, he is fed, and he is quite sure he’s safer here in the woods with a Witcher than any other man on the Contintent.

“Are you fucking…” Geralt kicks a foot out, again fixes Jaskier with an incredulous disbelieving look.

“Truly! Should there ever come a day, my dear Witcher, that I can attend to your needs, pay you back, thank you as you deserved to be thanked on behalf of all--”

“Suck my dick, bard,” Geralt huffs.

A cricket chirps. A toad bellows. A Jaskier croaks.

Jaskier sits there, slack-jawed, stunned so perfectly it’s like a spell’s been cast. He can feel heat prick his face, hotter than the warming fire. Geralt chuckles, nods approvingly because finally he’s shocked the imp into silence, and busies himself scraping a pulp of berbecane fruit into a vial, attention dutifuly returned to his potions.

“Okay,” Jaskier says.

Geralt fumbles the cork in his hand, nearly dropping it before he can smack it tight into the vial. Jaskier stands up to his feet, inexplicably dizzy, heart already rabbiting in his chest.

“If that’s how you wished to be thanked, dear Witcher, who am I to deny what I have just promised - nay ! sworn! To do.”

“It was a joke,” Geralt says warily.

Perhaps it was a joke. It’s the sort of throw away gruff rebuttal Geralt seems inclined to make. But it’s also so very tempting in the worst most wretched and delicious of ways. Becuae Jaskier had already entertained a number of filthy fantasies about the White Wolf since meeting him; fuck, he’d basically propositioned Geralt in Posada in his first breath.

“Was it?” Jaskier asks daintily, coming around the campfire. Geralt half turns to him, brow furrowed, all of him tense. Jaskier pauses, hovering just out of arms’ reach from him. “I’m not so sure; you see, dear Witcher, I am unrepentantly pathetic and such language and instruction incurs upon me a sense of demand that I’m weak to resist. It is both my fatal flaw and my greatest gift.”

Geralt’s staring at him, flummoxed, axed, flabbergasted, baring the face of a man so stricken and changed by the sharp veers that life takes with no warning that Jaskier half expects him to forsake his mutagens and convert to the cloth in search of answers.

“What?” Geralt rasps, face an earnest twist of confusion.

So maybe less wordplay? Foreplay that’s more frottage and not as much conversation fodder. Jaskier bites his lip, worries it until he’s liable to swallow a piece of himself, before deciding boldness is always a respectable course of action in any man, who would want a timid lover after all, and hits his knees before the Witcher.

“I would thank you, Geralt, as you desire to be thanked,” Jaskier nearly whispers. He’s already drunk on his own arousal at the potential of the exploit, titillated by the unknown variable of mutagens and Geralt’s aloof personality, spurred by the likelihood of an immense cock he can sate himself on. It has been awhile, and now the idea is so keen and sharp he’s helpless to the gnaw of lust in the base of his gut and his already half-filled dick, remembering the hot weight of flesh in his mouth and the thrill of the act.

Geralt’s mouth parts as he takes in Jaskier’s obedient form; he can scent arousal with every breath he takes. His own shocked pondering stretches painfully; Jaskier has since realized that his position put him too near the fire and his back and buttocks are near to scorched by the waves of heat behind him; still, he waits, quivering in his own punishment.

“You want to,” Geralt says flatly. Jaskier can’t tell if it’s a question or a general observation, perhaps Geralt’s idea of dirty talk?

He’s close to elucidating his desire in a preposterous manner, a rhyme jumping to his head, but he bites it back, swallowing as his mouth fills with spit as Geralt widens his thighs almost casually but it is an offering of a feast. Jaskier sways where he kneels, tips forward, magnetized by the bulge of Geralt now visible at the apex of his thighs.

“Gods, yes,” Jaskier rasps, stupid in his earnestness, “if you ever wanted for a mouth on your cock, let it be mine.”

“Fuck,” Geralt curses, cupping Jaskier’s hot cheek in his massive hand. The fire behind Jaskier crackles, wood splitting and spitting and he feels the hiss of its heat in his blood. He lets his eyes flutter shut and rubs his face into Geralt’s palm, calloused rough on his cheek, catching the friction of his evening stubble. He waits for the hand in his hair, a grip on the back of his neck, for Geralt to get to his feet and press forward or spread himself and lean back and drag Jaskier’s face to him, stuff him with his cock immediately and spend the night choking him on it while Jaskier begged for more.

None of that happens.

Jaskier opens one eye, then the other, blinking widely up at Geralt who has yet to move aside from the hand cradling Jaskier’s face. The Witcher frowns down at him, consternation knitting his brow. His nostrils flare wide with every breath he takes and a low rumble emanates from his chest, wild in origin, like thunder too many miles off to do more than quiver the air.

Jaskier’s confident in Geralt’s arousal. The Witcher’s catlike pupils have pooled to black discs, the slayer look of his gaze undeniable. But there’s none of the rapid capitulation to a good cock-sucking that Jaskier expects. Jaskier shifts on his knees, thighs tensing as if he might clench around his own cock to give it some pressure; Geralt’s free hand is clenched around his little Witcher potion.

“Geralt.”

Just his name leaving Jaskier’s mouth makes the man, for what is he in this moment but a man? Huff another breath, tilt his head incrementally with a hunting precision, pupils overtaking the golden ring of his iris completely. He wants. Jaskier is sure of it. Something is holding him back, and the restraint no doubt stems from the same fountained source that had the Witcher tarry so long and come to collect the ill-prepared bard before a wild pack of chipmunks could eat his hands or some such nonsense. A sense of responsible decency. Completely useless to Jaskier right now because this right now should be anything by restrained decency.

It’s simply to tilt his head and nip at Geralt’s palm, dragging his blunt teeth in a scorch across the tender skin of his hand. Geralt grunts, fingers pressing into Jaskier’s cheek, jaw, behind his ear. His thumb, rough and dry, runs experimentally across Jaskier’s mouth, pulls down his lower lip. Jaskier regards Geralt with nothing but intent as he lets his lips part and flicks his tongue over Geralt’s thumb, tasting earth and skin, sucks it easily into his mouth.  
That does the trick. Geralt presses his thumb against the cradle of Jaskier’s tongue, eyes widening then hooding as Jaskier sucks with a promise. In a motion, he finally puts his Witcher strength to use and gathers Jaskier from the ground, all but swings him around and beds him down on his leather roll.

“I’m beginning to believe you are a more feral creature than you’ve let on,” Geralt compliments as he rolls Jaskier atop him, letting Jaskier’s thighs slide on either side of his hips. The offer for a dick sucking is also a welcome invitation for a delicious grind into Jaskier’s ass. “Either that, or you’re truly as dumb as you are pretty.”

“You think I’m pretty,” Jaskier laughs, shifting so that he can press himself into where Geralt strains in his tight breeches. “Ah, dumb though, no, I’m very clever my dear Witcher. You have simply not let yourself appreciate my wit and whimsy.”

“Clever mouth,” Geralt relents, a hand on Jaskier’s hip to roll him to a rhythm that suited him, a hand coming to Jaskier’s cheek again to touch his mouth. Jaskier nips his thumb once more, enjoying the hard buck of Geralt’s hips when he does so. Geralt smiles tightly, eyes flint in the firelight. “That begs for cock.”

Evidently, this is more in line for dirty talk from Geralt. Lovely. Jaskier laughs again, bracing himself on Geralt’s rippling abdomen. “You are in for a treat if you thought me begging just now.” Jaskier runs his hands up and down Geralt’s chest and slips them beneath his shirt in one well-practiced slight of hands, pushing the fabric up past Geralt’s nipples in a single go.

Geralt blinks, pausing as Jaskier halfways divests him of his shirt. Jaskier pays that little heed - there is a mountain of a man under him, violently scarred. That gives him pause. They both hover in mutual stillness; Geralt’s hands have locked him in place across his lap, fingers denting bruises into Jaskier’s hips that he doesn’t notice; Jaskier bites his lip again, eyes flitting from one ragged patch of skin to another.

Geralt’s watching him.

Slowly, gently, Jaskier touches a rise of pink skin that looks newer than the rest. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Geralt says roughly, simply, exhaling as Jaskier spreads his palm warmly over the old wound.

“Can you feel it if I - “ he strokes the scar with a finger, the skin glossy in its newness.

Geralt nods. Jaskier hums. He finds another one, older, white and nothing more than a thinning of flesh on Geralt’s side. He fingers it, runs his hands up the jagged curve - teeth, he thinks suddenly. Confirms it by finding the arced mirror on the back of Geralt’s ribs.

Geralt’s silent for this; Jaskier doesn’t even think he’s breathing. With a small considering noise, he returns to divesting Geralt of his shirt, pushing it to the point of pure inconvenience. Geralt grunts and reaches to tug it off, finally freeing Jaskier’s hips from his grip; blood prickles in where his fingers had been clenching. Jaskier seizes the moment of vulnerability and shimmies down so that he can bend and kiss above Geralt’s navel, run his lips up a silver trail of hair to the center of Geralt’s chest.

Geralt has a fist of his hair immediately, a tug of warning. Jaskier touches his tongue to the closest scar, laps at it once in admiration.

“Let me thank this body, Geralt,” he murmurs urgently, twisting in Geralt’s hold so he can share a gaze with him. Black eyes of lust but a snarl of tension in the Witcher’s mouth. Jaskier strains towards him, allowed to do so by a curious give of the Witcher’s hand.

They don’t kiss. Jaskier tucks his face against Geralt’s, feeling as much as hearing how the Witcher scents him, digs his nose into Jaskier’s neck and draws lungfuls of his honest arousal, the unfetid promise of pleasure leaking from his pores. It brings Jaskier’s mouth to Geralt’s ear, and he takes his lobe between his lips - this bit of flesh as soft and as delicate as a babe’s. Geralt stiffens, curves ever so slightly against Jaskier, a sweet helpless gesture of approval. Jaskier breathes out in a rush, presses his cock against Geralt’s even as he runs the tip of his tongue along the shell of Geralt’s ear.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, knowing his voice must be loud, so loud to the Witcher; how loud is his heart? How loud had he called for Geralt all night until he’d been near to tears and whining and Geralt had known then that he was needed, wanted, essential?

What is better than begging than a promise kept?

“I’m going to put my mouth on you,” Jaskier promises, doing just that and kissing the Witcher’s neck, not lifting from it as he follows Geralt’s throbbing jugular to his bobbing adams apple that strains in the curve of his strong throat, that Jaskier wraps his lips around and sucks, laving with his tongue, Geralt’s breath leaving him in a war-torn gasp, strong enough that Jaskier can feel it tear up through his throat as he kisses Geralt’s skin. “I’m going to suck your cock, Geralt, unrepentantly pathetic in how much I’ll love it.”

Geralt swallows a surprised keen of noise at that.

He is, in his short little life, an accomplished consummate cocksucker. Everything before this moment has been practice for the here and now, for this great ode he’s about to perform because Geralt’s dick is jerking against his thigh, begging to be lavished.

Jaskier sits back against Geralt’s dick carefully, easing the pressure on him; Geralt follows like a tether’s been bound between them, lifting with Jaskier, cupping his ass - no his cheek - touching around his slim waist, wandering hands, marvelous sword-rough hands that can’t seem to decide which part of Jaskier to lay claim to.

“Hmm,” Geralt admires. Jaskier is choosing to think this is an admiring hmm. Actually, no, he knows it's admiring. Geralt’s got one hand under his shirt already, thumb rubbing teasingly along his hipbone, dipping beneath the waist of his pants. And Jaskier - Jaskier’s got the man half naked already, gorgeous, mapped with scars, all of him a curse and a feast at once.

He can’t not kiss Geralt. He physically cannot resist, keeps veering towards him, strained, gravity heavy on him, until he’s bowed over Geralt, bracing himself on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt’s eyes are so very bright, the slit of his pupil humongous and catching light, turning blue and green and shuttering black.

“I want to kiss you,” Jaskier warns him. Geralt hums again, blinking rapidly - Jaskier half expects some reptilian skin to flick across his eye; fuck it, Geralt hasn’t thrown him off yet; he kisses the Witcher, groaning as he captures those perfect cupid lips with his own. Geralt tastes like game meat and smoke and Jaskier remembers some terrible song about Witchers having forked tongues -- they don’t. He sucks Geralt’s very normal tongue into his mouth and sucks it hard, riding the groan of Geralt’s pleasure, rocking down into his lap as Geralt chases the kiss like a starved man. Whatever reluctance the Witcher had before this coupling, however much it had been a suggestion of jest, it’s gone now; Jaskier cinches his thighs around Geralt’s hips and tips his head back to let Geralt kiss and suck his way down his neck in a burst of furious desire.

A gleeful giggle escapes Jaskier amidst another sigh of pleasure; then he’s pulling Geralt back with a firm hand in his hair, soft hair, greasy and hot at his scalp. Geralt goes with a growl, eyes molten with lust; he’s a rigid pole beneath Jaskier and it’s Mayday and he’s the festival queen.

Sucking cock while his partner lays down is the least favorite of his positions, but that’s what he’s working with and he’s never been one to fail from a slight inconvenience. He kisses Geralt hard, hands working harder to unravel the front lace of his breeches until he can peel back the leather of Geralt’s pants, until his hands are amidst silver curls and Geralt’s hot cock is pushing up eagerly against him.

Jaskier breaks the kiss with a sound of triumph, scooting down so he can admire Geralt’s cock laying against his hard shuddering abdomen, red and still not fully hard and--

“Fuck me,” Jaskier whines, kicking Geralt’s thighs apart so he can huddle between the muscle of him like a war trench and paint the cock before him in admiring wet kisses and licks of his tongue. It’s easily the biggest cock he’s encountered and he really really really hopes he doesn’t die choking on it but what a way to go if he does. “You are gorgeous. I knew you’d be gorgeous, Geralt.”

He can’t help himself. Geralt smells like a man, that gorgeous hot metal smell, like coins and blood and sweat and animal and Jaskier enjoys every sense of depravity in his pursuit of flesh. Geralt is silky where Jaskier licks, hard and pulsing where he sucks around the girth of him, he is weeping at the tip, a sticky smear that Jaskier slakes his thirst on.

“Gods, I must have you naked,” Jaskier demands, sitting back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, rubbing it across the fringe of his hair because he’s already sweating in his eagerness.

Geralt’s staring at him, brow pinched again, chest rising and falling too steadily, calculated.

“You love it,” Geralt says, which is very obvious so Geralt’s hesitation is quite silly of him.

Jaskier grins at him and starts to peel Geralt's pants off. Geralt lifts his gorgeous hips in allowance, seemingly content to let Jaskier do as he pleases or unable to help. The boots are a disaster, Jaskier rucking Geralt’s pants around his ankles, cursing them, and there Geralt does help, slapping Jaskier away until they can be tossed aside and finally, finally, Jaskier has the Witcher fully naked, stretched before him, glowing in firelight and hot and hard and completely Jaskier’s in this moment.

Jaskier looks his fill, palming himself, and Geralt only cocks an eyebrow at him, stretches and cushions his head beneath one lazily bent arm, fists himself with his free hand and points his tip up in offering. Offering it is, and Jaskier a humble supplicant.

“Suck my dick, bard,” Geralt says again. Jaskier hears the humor now, the faint play of amusement in the words, but Geralt’s veins are standing out in his arms and one foot is planted hard into the ground, tense, because he’s shivering with anticipation, not quite fucking the air, no, not yet, but his hips lift from the bedroll and push into his fist and his eyes are fixed on Jaskier’s mouth as one might stare down the length of a blade.

Jaskier kneels between Geralt’s massive thighs and runs the tip of his finger up the seam of his balls, cups them gently, squeezing less gently. Geralt bows with the touch, jerking himself, eyes still, still, fixed on Jaskier but no longer his mouth; he’s watching Jaskier’s eyes, his face, searching for the sign of danger because he’s naked before a man with his balls in hand.

“Gladly,” is all Jaskier says to that, laying down between Geralt’s legs and taking the head into his mouth. Geralt sighs deeply, relaxing with a lazy little thrust, cockhead rubbing heavy across Jaskier’s tongue. He slobbers purposefully so he can fist the base of Geralt because the man is a beast and Jaskier’s throat is only so long, you know, one can only manage so much and he has to sing for a living gods damnit, he has to think about his livelihood and the day after next.

Geralt doesn’t seem to mind as Jaskier twists his fist, meets his fingers, sucks in a lavishing rhythm. He threads his fingers into Jaskier’s hair and does nothing about it, palm heavy and hot where it rests, easing Jaskier’s pace.

Fuck, the fucking Witcher likes it slow.

The thought spears through him like a beam of light. Geralt of Rivia likes his dick sucked real slow.

Jaskier wants to gag himself on Geralt’s giant dick but there’s no rush, is there? Geralt’s vibrating beneath him, inching his cock deeper lazily, thigh tensing where Jaskier braces himself but - he’s not fucking Jaskier’s face into a mess like he really thought Geralt would. The paradox of Geralt’s abrasive nature and this easy-going lover, armed with a weapon of a cock, has Jaskier hotter than it should by all accounts. He takes his time then, lets his mind drift as he suckles and gluts on Geralt, freeing his hands to rub his thigh, his hip, squeeze his ass where he can reach, pet sweetly at thin-skinned scars and puckered badly healed ones. He plays with Geralt’s dick a little, kissing it cutely because the thing is frankly, alarmingly huge, and Jaskier amuses himself sucking the slit until it leaks for him, and then wetting the rigid curved staff until his lips can slide easy and languidly in a dirge of a rhythm that must be maddening, his tongue tracing veins and memorizing Geralt's taste even as it vanishes in a blur of spit and skin.

When he straddles one of Geralt’s legs to thrust against him, rub himself against Geralt’s shin, Geralt twists to Jaskier, hums, eyes opening briefly before they roll as Jaskier sucks noisy and pointed at the head of his cock and swipes his tongue around his foreskin - then the Witcher is hushed again with a moan, a twitch of his fingers and blurt of precome in Jaskier’s eager mouth.

Jaskier isn’t good at being quiet. He pulls off with another noisy suck, licks Geralt clean of the worst of the spit, and licks up his navel too, spreading the wet from his chin into his traipsing happy trail, Geralt’s stomach jumping beneath his touch.

“This isn’t what I expected,” he admits, clearing his throat of the thickened spit that’s gathered at the back of his throat. “You’re a bit lazy in bed.”

Geralt hums uselessly and slits open an eye to peer at him. “You’re good at this and...you like it.” His big heavy hand palms Jaskier’s face, thumb yet again rubbing across Jaskier’s fucked-red lips. “I like that.”

And fuck, fuck.

“I like it,” Jaskier confirms. Geralt does his little hum again, nods faintly. He presses down on Jaskier’s bottom teeth and opens his mouth up, runs his thumb back and forth across the tops of his only faintly crooked teeth, presses his pad into his little canine, twitches a smile; Geralt has fiendish teeth himself and it should be scary, seeing them glinting, but Jaskier’s anything but scared.

Gently, sweetly, Geralt guides his cock back into Jaskier’s mouth, his thumb slotted alongside it until the stretch is tight and Jaskier’s breathing raggedy through his nose as Geralt urges him a little deeper than before, until the back of his throat trembles and he gulps, sinking down more. The angle’s terrible and he fidgets, shuffling his knees as he gets almost to the root of Geralt, slapping the Witcher’s hands away because this requires an earnest amount of focus if he wants to take Geralt as deep as he can. He’s sweating in his clothes, dying in his own arousal.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier moans, looking up through a sheen of tears. Geralt’s propped himself on his elbows, still breathing too controlled but his chest swells hugely with each of those measured breaths. Geralt pets his face, hand too hot.

“Bite me.”

Jaskier slurps his way off Geralt’s dick, presses a hand to his own cock. “Huh?”

Geralt makes a long resentful noise, stroking himself immediately in the absence of Jaskier’s mouth. “I want to feel your teeth.” Jaskier goes cross-eyed staring at the red head of Geralt’s cock, shiny with his dedication, pushing through that tight white fist.

Jaskier runs his tongue across his teeth thoughtfully and nods, grasping Geralt’s wrist. “Stand up for me, Geralt.” He tugs because Geralt basically pouts at having to participate in his own dick sucking, but then Jaskier’s balancing himself against Geralt’s naked body, the Witcher far too steady on his feet.

His enormous cock is even more breath taking now that Jaskier’s facing it directly, kneeling on the bed roll. Geralt jerks himself slowly, letting his fat drooling head rub across Jaskier’s lips like a balm. Jaskier looks up at him as he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, letting Geralt fuck it leisurely, his hand knotted in Jaskier’s hair.

“Fuck, you love it,” Geralt says roughly, dipping himself into the dark of Jaskier’s throat, the muscle a quick choked spasm around his cock, the head of him so bulbous it’s like plugging a hole, stuffing Jaskier’s face fat and full almost too easily. Jaskier moans, working his pants open finally to pull himself out over the waist of his breeches to stroke himself, slow and tight in pace with Geralt’s experimental throat fucking.

The potency of Jaskier’s arousal, now bare in his hand, has the Witcher growling. Geralt spreads his legs a little wider and Jaskier dares to sneak a hand up his leg, caressing the back of his thigh, petting the downy hair that crawls up his leg and over his ass, furry and thick around his balls and between his cheeks. He cups one of Geralt’s cheeks, squeezing him hard as he finally closes his mouth around Geralt’s dick, sliding down so so slow, letting his teeth graze along the way.

Geralt groans in his throat the whole way as if someone’s sunk a blade into his gut. Jaskier swirls his tongue around him, his own dick twitching rebellious to the thought of teeth but he bites gently, barely --

“Harder,” Geralt huffs.

He bites. Not hard. Fuck, he doesn’t think anything in the world could make him bite a dick, the idea terrifies him, but he presses his teeth in increments of pressure until he’s too nervous to do it much longer and sucks off the rest of the way. Geralt’s finally shuddering, two hands in Jaskier’s hair, messing it to all hell. Jaskier repeats the gesture again, letting his teeth catch. He picks up his pace, jaw aching, lips tingling, lets it get sloppy and wet and risky; at one point, Geralt’s dick catches against his molars and Geralt grunts, freezing, and Jaskier’s heart races thinking he’s finally gone and bit the dick that feeds him but then Geralt’s rubbing his cheek, touching himself through the skin and Jaskier’s mouth feels split and torn apart but he presses into it, fits Geralt’s cock between his teeth and his cheek - or tries because he’d rip himself in half and the corners of his lips already feel thin with pain and tearing- and Geralt pants above him, admiring how he’s distended Jaskier’s mouth, watching tears spill from Jaskier’s eyes with the strain. He pulls all the way out, dragging strands of drool and a wrecked sob from Jaskier’s choked mouth.

It feels as if his jaw will never shut, and gods, Geralt wasn’t even fucking him, wasn’t even being rough. Just too fucking big and Jaskier too hungry to resist.

Jaskier catches his breath, sparing a look down at his own dick, pumping himself in a burst of excitement; when he returns his attention back to Geralt, Geralt’s fucking his fist blindingly fast, the sound a blur of wet skin and effort.

“Wait wait wait!” he cries, trying to stick his mouth back on Geralt’s dick. He doesn’t manage it.

Geralt comes silently, a swallowed noise in his throat, pumping himself as hot heavy streaks of come spill onto Jaskier’s surprised face, his open mouth, his eyes bright and shiny and flinching as come paints his lashes and cheeks and hair, falls on his tongue and lips. It seems to go on forever, dredging him, and he blindly skates his hands up Geralt’s thighs to their apex to rub his tense throbbing balls, still smooth and swollen as they empty themselves in a gush all over Jaskier’s pretty face.

The dick back in his mouth startles him, making him jump a little as Geralt rubs his sated flesh against the white spill of come gathered thickly on Jaskier’s tongue.

“Do you love this too?” Geralt asks, sounding breathless as if he’s come from battle. Jaskier manages to squint his least come-covered eye open, just to see the expectant look Geralt has, something like delight couched in his hard face. “You love the taste of me?”

In response, because if Jaskier is anything he is a showman, he suckles Geralt’s dick until the Witcher hisses from sensitivity and makes a show of swallowing everything in his mouth. It’s almost enough to make him retch, potent and masculine and burning all the way down his throat. He shows off his empty tongue and Geralt swears and then Jaskier is chasing Geralt’s pleasure with his own, coming onto the bedroll and inexplicably, onto Geralt’s bare foot. Geralt doesn’t move, letting Jaskie spill where he does.

It’s very quiet after that, Jaskier near blind, staring at his come on Geralt’s foot that’s bone pale, the tendons thin high ridges. The fire crackles. Geralt’s hand is absently petting the back of his head and Jaskier’s ears are ringing in the silence that sits.

He doesn’t really think anything of dipping down and licking himself off Geralt’s foot. It’d be rather rude of him to make a mess and not clean it up.

He’s not expecting Geralt to _whimper_.

There’s not another word for the sound. It’s a wounded thing, a startled thing, the sound you make when shook awake from a dream. Jaskier presses his face to Geralt’s knee, shocked by it, then his thigh, mouthing his way up the now trembling muscle of him, kissing and nipping, licking his balls when he gets there; Geralt’s soaked, his pubic hair wet with spit and precum, with sweat and Jaskier kisses the thin skin stretched at his hipbone until he’s kneeling upright again, holding Geralt’s pliant body and kissing at his navel, rubbing his face against him, rubbing Geralt’s own come into his skin, because he’s breathless and Geralt’s warm and softer than Jaskier thought he’d be, flesh and tender.

Geralt doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. His dick does twitch but Jaskier can hardly hold the Witcher accountable for that. Jaskier can’t spend the rest of the night like this, so with one last nip to the littlest bit fat right beneath Geralt’s navel, he sits back on his heels and rubs his sleeve cuff across his eyes to rid them of the worst of the come that remains.

“I told you, Geralt, I’d thank you properly,” he teases, grinning up at the man despite how his lips quiver to even hold a fascimile of a smile when his jaw hurts so bad he has a headache and his lips feel swollen like he's taken a punch to the mouth.

Geralt still starring at him, no longer addled by lust. He has that same expression on his face as earlier, confused wariness. Then, the absolutely ass of a man, snorts at Jaskier, laughs once, and hauls Jaskier to his feet in a single tug.

“There will be no getting rid of you now,” Geralt sighs and he tucks Jaskier’s spent dick back into Jaskier’s pants for him, staring Jaskier in the eyes in a very unnerving way.

“Uh,” Jaskier manages. “Good. Good! Right, good, that’s. Good.”

“Hmm.”

And he swears Geralt’s laughing at him. Well, jokes on him because Jaskier knows that he likes his dick bit so _there._

“You’re sleeping on this bedroll,” is what Geralt says next, and Jaskier eyes the come stains on the leather beneath him. He supposes that’s his fault. Geralt doesn’t wait for an answer, just dresses himself and grabs Jaskier’s roll to set up beside where his lays.

“Geralt.”

A heavy sigh. “What?”

“What do you say after someone thanks you?” Jaskier tosses him a cheeky wink and the Witcher shakes his head, thinking, gods, what poor woman gave birth to you. “Come now, Witcher, where are your manners?”

“You’re welcome, bard,” Geralt allows magnanimously, laying down on his back and watching silently as Jaskier wipes his sticky hands on his legs and says fuck it, and lays down beside Geralt, turning to watch Geralt watch him back. He’s safe, he’s warm, he’s well fed. It’s a beautiful night.

**Author's Note:**

> This is Like the tamest smut I’ve ever written


End file.
